


A tried and valiant soldier

by Anonymous



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Good Fights for a Good Cause, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:12:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> It lasts less than two minutes. She backhands him across the face with her practice shield, and he wears the bruises all the way back to the Storm Coast. </i> It’s love at first fight, for Krem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A tried and valiant soldier

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people on my Twitterfeed, it turns out, really like Krem/Cass, and I could see the appeal, so I sat down and wrote the... whatever the writing equivalent of a rough sketch is.

The fact of the matter is: what little intel they have on the Inquisition isn't worth shit. They know the Conclave exploded, and that the Right and Left Hands of the Divine have gone rogue up in the mountains with an elf they're claiming is the Herald of Andraste. Some Ambassador Montilyet (Krem's been picturing a crusty old Antivan man) has put out a call for 'companies of free soldiers' to 'bolster the numbers of the faithful'—"Which means," the Bull says, with a snort, "they don't have enough people for a real army yet, and need to hire some muscle real fast." 

"Good fights for a good cause," says Krem. He smooths the broadsheet the Inquisition's messenger delivered. Hand-written. Good paper, fine ink. "Good money, too."

The Bull snorts. "The sky is shitting demons, and you want to put us right in the middle of it?"

"Chief," Krem says, "we probably won't even _see_ that many demons."

*

He tells the guards on patrol at Haven he's looking for their commander, and one of the soldiers leads him up the hill, into the ramshackle, muddy little compound that's sprung up around the village Chantry.

The chief's taught him a lot of things, over the years. How to waste less energy when swinging a maul. How to pick out the leader in a group, so you can take them out faster. The blond man must be some kind of templar—nice clothes, for a templar—and he's deferring to the dark-haired woman with his whole body, standing on a lower step when he speaks to her, inclining his head when she speaks sharply. She's in full plate, with a Chantry sunburst on the front. Easy call to make.

"Commander," Krem says to the woman, holding up the ambassador's broadsheet. "I'm Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, of the Bull's Chargers, based out of—"

"Cullen is the commander," the woman says, and turns sharply on her heel to walk into the Chantry.

"Don't worry about her, serah," says Cullen. Maker's ass—the Commander is barely older than Krem himself. This, here, is one-fourth of The Hope Of All Thedas (as the broadsheet says, in large, curly golden letters that take up half the page), smiling just a little too widely and fidgeting with his fur collar. "Cassandra and I get that all the time."

"I can't see why," Krem says.

*

So the Herald of Andraste isn't just an elf, but a _Dalish_ elf. Ambassador Montilyet turns out to be young and pretty, and refuses to flirt with anyone, apparently, not just Krem. The Left Hand of the Divine is the chief's type exactly: tall, redheaded, intense, thorough. (Insofar as the chief has a specific type, of course, beyond 'breathing' and 'probably won't snap in half.') He spends a few days with the Inquisition's soldiers, and they're disciplined, if green. Everyone stands up a little straighter when the Right Hand herself, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, comes around.

He works up the courage to ask Seeker Pentaghast for a sparring match, the night before he leaves. It lasts less than two minutes. She backhands him across the face with her practice shield, and he wears the bruises all the way back to the Storm Coast.

*

"Your company's reputation is impeccable," Seeker Pentaghast says to the Iron Bull. "We'll be honored to have you join us. And, please don't let Lady Montilyet talk your price down too much; she's pompous for days when she writes contracts tilted in her favor."

Her tone is polite. She's looking the Bull up and down like she's trying to figure out the best way to render him down to his component parts. The Bull is looking back at her like he wouldn't mind one bit. Krem, standing at attention between them, helmet held under his arm, rain dripping down the back of his neck, jaw still tender from their match, isn't enough of a threat to get the assessment, apparently. 

Look at her: she's covered in demon blood. He's got about an inch on her, in boots, maybe. She's got about a decade on him, and it shows, in her movements, her discipline, her bearing. The clouds have cleared a little, somewhere off in the distance; the light from the sunset throws the scars on her face into sharp relief. 

"Go get 'er, Krem Puff," the Bull says, slinging an arm over Krem's shoulder, once Seeker Pentaghast is safely out of earshot. She's gone back to the Herald, and she says something in a stern voice. It sounds like a reproof—but the Herald laughs and slaps her on the back, then turns to address some Rivaini mage and the other elf in their group, the little blonde one.

And once she thinks no one's looking at her, the corner of Seeker Pentaghast's mouth curves up into a proud smile. Just for a second. Blink and you'd miss it.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Chief," says Krem, and goes to tell the crew to seal up the damn casks.

*

As it turns out, being the guy who had the stones to get his sorry ass kicked in public by Seeker Pentaghast gives you a certain amount of cachet around the camps. The story grows in the telling, and it does about as much for the Chargers' rep as the jobs Cullen sends them on.

Even so. The second time he asks her to spar, he does it in private. The armory is deserted, either because it's late, or because she's in a mood—it's palpable, when she's in a _mood_. "It will be with fists," Cassandra says, setting aside her sword and whetstone. 

They know each other well enough for her to nod at him in the hallways of Skyhold, but not well enough for him to ask her what's wrong. Outside, by the practice dummies, he takes a fist to the jaw and a knee to the gut before Cassandra grabs him by the wrist, bends him over, gets his elbow locked in her armpit. "Yield," she snarls, "or I'll break your arm." 

He doesn't doubt it, and taps her knee, just twice, for her to let him go. When they break apart, she's breathing hard, despite how fast it was over. Then she unbuckles her breastplate and tosses it to the side, and Krem feels his ears turn red—she's only showing a little sliver of skin at her throat. Her chest is bound up almost as tightly as his is. Seeing her without any armor is about as close to naked as he's ever going to see her.

She cracks her neck, slow and deliberate, then each of her knuckles, one at a time. "Again," she says. "Do better. _Try_ to land a hit on me, boy."

*

A black eye and a couple of loose teeth later, which Stitches gives him no end of shit about—the weekly beat-down becomes a ritual. By the fifth week, she asks him about life in the Tevinter army: border skirmishes with Nevarra, quickly hushed up by both sides. Sending his pay home to his family. Learning just enough to stop the mages in his unit, if need be.

Cassandra's cheerful that day, and she toys with him for a while before taking him down—to the ground. Straddling his hips. She's got a mountain shit on her plate, even now that they're safe at Skyhold; Krem's just glad to see her happy, for once, even before he realizes their position. And what a position. "So, Lady Seeker," Krem says, pulse pounding in his throat, "what's got you so chipper?" 

"One of Sister Leliana's operations has gone well." Cassandra crosses her arms and sits back on her heels, and that's that: top secret Inquisition business, not for the merc to know. It's fair. The Chargers have done that the Inquisition doesn't need to know about, either. Krem turns his face to the side, to stare at their swords on the grass. 

"Don't pout," she adds, patting his cheek—it's less of a pat and more of a light slap, not that she'd realize—it's unbecoming. "She saved a young agent of hers from near-certain death. It's good—when something goes well for her, for once." 

If he were the Bull, he'd find some way to make this an innuendo. He's not. Cassandra slides off him and gets to her feet, but Krem stays down. "I think you killed me," he says, and prods at his ribs. 

"You've survived me this long," Cassandra scoffs. "Perhaps—perhaps a drink would revive you. At the tavern. Come along." 

"Ma'am," he says, and takes her outstretched hand.


End file.
